


Star Shadow

by Urloth (CollyWobbleKiwi)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 03:47:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11866023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollyWobbleKiwi/pseuds/Urloth
Summary: Her stomach growled and twisted.Oh she was hungry. She was so hungr-Blinding silver light filled the sky.





	Star Shadow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lunarium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy! A thank you to Napoldeinlove and Greenekangaroo for all their help.

 

Times had been rough of late. Thuringwethil shivered at a breeze that usually would not have bothered her iron clad fana. Usually… however months of starvation had whittled her reserves which were no longer infinite since that bitch Varda had banished her from the lands where she could simply draw her energy from the ether.

And ever since the dark one had moved into the forest from which she had set flight from to feed herself, it had been far harder to take elves from the road that ran through it. And then Melyanna’s twit of a daughter had decided she wanted to dance in the formerly unprotected outskirts of Doriath, meaning the trees now bristled with wardens who were no fun to try and feast on.

Between that Eöl and this she was left to fly back to Angband and try and swallow down the energy that rose from Melkor and his lackey’s various experiments or hope to find a village of Moerben who didn’t know better than to live in caves or under the earth…

Or maybe an errant traveller? A merchant? Trader?

But trying to fine one of those was especially hard in the vast dimpled spaces of Beleriand. If only there was a reliable light source. The stars were only good enough for large shapes and trying to find prey by energy could lead to a unfortunate snack on a deer and days of shame and regret.

Her stomach growled and twisted.

Oh she was hungry. She was so hungr-

Blinding silver light filled the sky.

Thuringwethil fell off her branch and fell hard on the ground with a thud enough to scare away a lingering moose. She relocated her left shoulder and crawled her way back up the tree, muttering to herself. She hoped the dark one hadn’t been near. That talkative black sword of his would have been good company but it could cut through her iron.

High above the forest Ilmarë’s star was shining brighter than a balrog with gas. So bright that single star. Thuringwethil squinted, the eyes of her crippled fana watering in the face of it.

What was going on up there?

Thuringwethil groaned as she realised several vertebrae had been popped loose by her fall and set about putting them back where they were meant to go. Ilmarë ow-

Wait-

Ilmarë was the solution to her problems.

If she could make it to that star on what she had left.

-

Most of the stars in the sky were sparks from Aulë’s forge which Varda had taken without permission and placed in the sky.

Well.

Ordered to be placed. Thuringwethil could still remember the sting of handling the shark brightness and fighting it into place in the sky’s mantle.

But most was not all, and amongst the glittering frozen light were great crystal terrariums, faceted in shape to reflect.

They were large enough for one to live in comfortably, and within each thrived there resided those maiar whom Varda thought had beauty to enhance those stars, or those who Varda had thought were, once the job of creating Arda was done, needed to be put aside where their power could do no harm, and finally those who were, to Varda... inconvenient.

And the greatest of those- and the one who was as equally all three of those three reasons for perpetual suspension in the sky, was Ilmarë.

Thuringwethil, who would have filled the last two categories flew higher towards her.

-

Most of the terrariums that Thuringwethil had seen--at a distance mainly, with unease growing every day as they had been assembled-- contained exquisite gardens, and space enough for rest.

No Ainur needed food as the Quendi thought of it. They fed upon the energy of Arda, the thrumming hum of creation that resided within each speck of it. In Aman the Trees and the air carried the energy in quantities enough one never went hungry for even a blink of time. The terrariums had been created to be able to create some of that energy, Thuringwethil had not the knowledge of how though she wished she had it, and she could feel Ilmarë’s humming in the air.

Yet she could not feed from it. That part of her that could simply sip from the air and the trees had been ripped out of her as she had fled into the East, caught on the hooks of Varda’s reaching grasp.

She had to take her energy by a far more direct means now.

-

The light was far too bright for her eyes when she arrived. Groaning she shrunk herself, feeling her energy begun to truly run out. She made herself small, felt her colouring become pale as she took the form of the smallest of bats and fluttered towards a large palm type of plant.

She crawled beneath the large flat leaf in this newer form and chewed at the stem until the sides collapsed to form a tent around her and shield her from the intensity. Unfortunately she was not the only one with this idea; another came investigating, fluffy, small and white, and with it came the rest of its family group, chirping and wriggling together and trying to push her out of the shelter.

She hissed tiredly, and bit, but there were about eight of them and one of her.

Before she had to flee though, there was a laugh soft like snow before a blizzard was soft, and a hand slipped under the leaf, glowing bright and silver, grabbing her.

“Hello my friend,” softest lips brushed against her, “how VERY reduced you have become” and the power _pushed_ through Thuringwethil.

She went from flopped exhausted and dismayed in Ilmarë’s palms to once again upon her feet and her wings mantled in irritation at the laughter that shimmered in the air from soft voiced, dove winged Ilmarë. Ilmarë would not be intimidated however, by the shriek the black iron of Thuringwethil’s wings made when they flexed in a display of faux power. Instead she kissed her, more power glittering on her tongue and leaving behind a buzz against Thuringwethil’s fangs.

“Is it worth it?” Ilmarë asked her, leading her back with her arms around Thuringwethil’s shoulders and seeming to dance upon nimble toes between the hard tread of Thuringwethil’s long iron claws, “to be mutilated, enslaved, and hungry all the time?”

Even before Thuringwethil had needed to take from the literal vein of life to find her nourishment, Ilmarë had been a bright unpredictable force in her life. She would have followed her. How she would have followed her. As Mairon would have followed Eonwë. But more because she was more capable than he of giving herself up.

Master of the World she had never envisioned herself, merely free.

But for Ilmarë she would have… would have done something, she was sure, that today she could not envision herself doing. And perhaps for Mairon it might have been so as well but such had not occurred for either of them. Eonwë flew messages like a common pigeon and Ilmarë sat in her terrarium and shone. And that was that.

“Probably not,” she replied, her tongue feeling heavy and cutting itself against the suddenly inconvenient weight of her black iron maw, “but I’d not change it.”

She was not sure what it was called that Ilmarë was wearing, but that did not matter. One finger hooked at the top of it and pulled down, the material parting around her black claw; blue and silver brocade falling to the ground.

Her breasts were as beautiful as Thurinwethil’s memories told, and she suspected that Ilmarë had not had to change her fana since they had last met. One in the palm was a delight, the nipple hard and the jewels on the bar pierced through it clearly of Aulë’s forge. One couldn’t help get an eye for the style of that School when it was the only style you saw anymore unless you were rummaging in the corpses of the few meals that left Melyanna’s girdle.

She kissed down from soft lips and rest her face against the artery beating healthily. Her mouth watered. But a sharp sting as Ilmarë grabbed her hair and pulled kept her from drinking.

“Payment,” Ilmarë demanded, “before I feed you Shadow-Maid.”

There was a bed, it was far too low and far too large and pillows spilled from it to mingle with the plants with wide, flat, waxy leaves from beneath which poison coloured frogs stared dumbly. Thuringwethil picked her up and carried her there, lay her down and knelt between thighs more beautiful than golden pearls such as Uinen wore with immense vanity and glittering teeth at those who did not have husbands in thrall to worship them.

Ilmarë spread out her wings, her primary feathers brushing against the black serpents of Thuringwethil’s hair, and sighed indulgently. It was a sound too much like the ones that she had heard many times from Varda’s mouth. Instead of kissing her way leisurely forward, she hurried forward to erase such sounds from Ilmarë’s vocabulary. She licked a stripe, and caught Ilmarë’s  buttocks in her palms when she arched in surprise, and then wriggled forward on her belly like a snake.

She caught the sudden snapping inwards of Ilmarë’s thighs with the hooks of her wings and laughed, licking again and then dragging her tongue back and forth against the clitoris that was already swollen.

“What were you doing before I arrived?” she breathed against Ilmarë femoral, stomach twinging enough for pain. “This is not just me.”

She licked again. Ilmarë gasped. Sucked and there was a scream.

Hands twisted in her hair again and she could feel that llmarë had grown herself claws of her own, likely steel in content, and they scrapped against the skin and brought the black ichor in Thuringwethil’s capillaries to the surface.

“Shut up,” Ilmarë hissed, and arched with two hands full of Thuringwethil’s hair.

Fine then. Thuringwethil did wonder who would be able to visit Ilmarë. Who had the time. The Power. The permissions or at least the worthiness and leverage that Varda would not smite them.

Smiting in mind she set her mind to the pleasant task before her, the reward not only Ilmarë’s pleasure but a meal that would feed Thuringwethil for months.

She stretched her arms up and cupped those two wonderful breasts, and wondered how those Quendi coped with being unable to reform and adjust their fana for such situations. Ilmarë’s wings were thrashing, her heels pushing so hard against the back of Thuringwethil’s shoulders that the metal plating down her spine began to buckle.

When Ilmarë came, most likely, the light of her star probably filled the sky beyond being able to disregard it as the night being particularly clear. The air liquified around their bodies momentarily and the creatures within the garden went dead still, knowing that death would result from movement through the sticky atmosphere.

Thuringwethil smiled, her body buzzing with need but too drained to give more than a needy twinge that was lost beneath her starvation pangs. She kissed the wet twitching flesh and then licked beside, nuzzling that wonderful femoral artery that Ilmarë has masterfully crafted so that the blue of it was a shadow under her skin. Thuringwethil ran her tongue against it and bit. Ilmarë arched and she caught her by the small of her back and held her. Her skin was so warm, blood rich, but the brightness, the energy in it… it _was_ pure starlight, it _was_ the breath of Arda and the crackling energy of the blessed lands.

Her orgasm was small and rolled through her without fanfare, more a lazy tide of sensation than a wave.

She sighed and drank deeper, moaning as Ilmarë’s thighs squeezed tight around her head.

Only when the warmth of Ilmarë dimmed did she pull away, and look down upon the flared mussed wings and silver hair which had grown over the sides of the bed to twist around the marble planters littering the terrarium and squeeze them till they broke and disgorged their contents onto the mosaiced walkways.

Lovely.

“Oh that was lovely,” Ilmarë plucked words out of her mouth, “why can’t you return home so you can be at leisure for this all the time?”

“As much as I would love that environment,” Thuringwethil confessed, finding herself dissatisfied and disappointed to look down at Ilmarë’s body in repose, wanting to be there with her, not loom over her like a disaffected black stork, “I wouldn’t be able to handle that life style again Ilmarë.”

Ilmarë looked disappointed. For a second Thuringwethil considered that maybe if she could beg enough and get a position where she was in near isolation, save visits from Ilmarë, she could bear it but reality interjected. It would be straight through the Doors of Night for her.

“I understand,” Ilmarë kissed the air, “fare thee well my darling Shadow Maid, and may you one day find your peace.”

Now that was more than slightly ominous but Thuringwethil did not stay to see if Ilmarë was merely being cryptic or oracular.

She slipped from the gazebo to the shadows cast by the lantern clad tree, and from there she took flight back down to the dark, hungry earth beneath.


End file.
